The Little Detective
by LilyV687
Summary: The death of Dresner and capture of Simons aren't Poirot and Hastings' only triumphs of the night. A Sweethistory translation. To read the original story follow this link: sweethistory. blog. cz/0904/maly-detektiv


**The Little Detective **– A Sweethistory Story, translated by LilyV687

Zuzana Martinkova/Sweethistory/CeskaSoda©™®

For the original version, in Czech, follow this link:

.cz/0908/poirot-a-hastings

**A/N: **This following story was not written by myself; it is the work of another, so I have tried as best I can to keep to the strict storyline. Legal disclaimer: Poirot and Hastings are not my own characters nor anyone else's; they belong to Agatha Christie or Mathew Prichard or whomever.

"Are you sure it's him?"

The man whispered, towering over the other.

"Inspector, you must trust me as-"

"You're right, I know, every ti-"

"Sh!" the little man whipped a finger to his lips and stared through the night. Across the lane, a dark figure emerged from the crumbling house and stood staring in the men's direction. Poirot and Japp pushed themselves harder against the icy wall, hidden by the thick shadows. The figure walked forwards into the yellow light of a street lamp, his every feature suddenly clear by the sickly illumination. His dark eyebrows rose under the brim of his hat, revealing green eyes that turned, followed by his delicately curved nose, away from the lane and towards the main road. Another pair of green eyes began to sparkle as Poirot nudged his friend, whispering,

"That's him," in his confident and reassuring voice.

"Right boys, now!" Japp shouted, and immediately the lane flooded with policemen who came from every shadow around. Poirot clapped his hands to his ears as the stagnant air came alive with shouting and the sharp tweet of whistles. The policemen scampered around like mice and managed to enclose the fleeing figure in a tight circle. The figure rocked back and forth, trying desperately to see a crack in their barrier, one possible exit, but he was beaten. In slow resignation, the man raised his hands above his head.

***

From my niche I emerged onto the lane. The house from where the figure had appeared, Simons his name, was seething with policemen. Torchlights flickered through the dirty windows and blinded me with their brightness. I turned around to see Japp conversing proudly with another of his men. Nearby, Simons stood in handcuffs awaiting the car to take him back to Scotland Yard. Despite the pride, I felt a strange empathy for Simons bubbling up in my chest. The man was beat. He simply stood there with his head hung low, chin resting on his chest. It must have been uncomfortable, but he needn't spare his neck, he would have no use for it soon enough. His visage made me feel sick; not the feeling I had wanted after a night of waiting and a plan well conducted. I turned to look for Poirot. He was sure to put the thoughts out of my head. Without much seeking, I found the man standing under a street lamp, using the light to spot the dust upon his coat. He stopped and gazed away from me, his sights on the defeated Simons. His expression rivalled Simons in its vacancy; Poirot stood looking bored, as if the whole thing was just another routine. He looked very much like a tired military officer, waiting for the end of the exercise.

'Just another day in the life of the world's greatest detective', I thought, and had to smile at the idea. It was nothing short of the modesty of my dear friend. As I approached, he looked up and gave a wave, interrupted by the colour of his once-white gloves. Pain creased his soft face for a moment, before he realised nothing could be done without the help of soap and hot water. I stopped a few feet in front of him, clicked my heels together, raised my hat, and bowed deeply, much to the amusement of Poirot, who applauded and bowed in return.

"You played your rôle masterfully, mon ami!" he praised, taking my hand and shaking it vigorously.

"Oh, really, it was nothing…" I said, enjoying my few seconds of fame.

"Non, non, non, mon cher! You are a born actor! I have no doubt at all that he believed you." I smiled, looking down at his dusty clothes.

"It was no trouble for me, but the same can't be said for you." He held his hands to the light and clicked his tongue angrily.

"Alas, my friend, nothing can be done to save these. We must all make sacrifices, no matter what they might be." He said bitterly, trying again to remove the offending dirt.

"But this is not about gloves, Hastings! Tell me, what happened?"

"Everything was fine. They believed Dresner had sent me, no problem, and-"

I stopped as Poirot looked like he had just had tar poured down his jacket.

"_They_ believed…? Simons was not alone?"

"Well no, Simons was with his brother-"

"Oh mon Dieu!" He suddenly yelped, "This is terrible." My pride for a job well done melted away and I looked down at my shoes.

"Poirot, what ca-" The lane thundered with the sharp crack of a shot. I threw myself down and looked over to where the shot had come from: the house next to the one the policemen had been searching. As I watched, I saw a vague silhouette in one of the upstairs windows, and a gun pointed at a group of the few remaining officers.

"Japp!" Poirot cried, pointing a soiled glove at the house in question. He could not see for the moment, but the gun had switched its target. It was trained on Poirot. With great effort, I heaved myself off the ground and threw myself at Poirot, crashing onto the pavement on top of him. At that same moment, I heard the second crack of the gun, and right where Poirot had been less than a second before, the bullet whizzed past, blasting the plaster wall behind us.

"Ah, mon Dieu! Venir Hastings, eloigner il nous fait de la lumière! Vite!" Poirot shouted, pulling my arm. I stumbled as I followed him into the dark alley just as another shot pierced the wall where we were. The alley was small and damp, only a few feet deep, but it was dark and we had no other choice – bar death.

"Stay there!" I clearly recognized Japp's voice through the commotion of the lane and I did not plan to disobey. Another shot rang out, this time away from our sanctuary, and through the clamour of the men outside I learnt a man had been shot. I felt sick to the stomach, hoping and praying it was not Japp. The policemen began fire, and I tried to drown the scene outside with thoughts in my head. We were safe here. We were safe unless we moved. Surely, it was at least twenty to one men out there.

I leaned a shoulder against the damp wall and watched the narrow segment of road, hoping that Japp would run past at any second and quell my worries.

I jumped when Poirot tugged my coat and abruptly turned to face him. Even in the inky shadows, I could see my friend's eyes. It was like they had attracted all the remaining light in the world and were casting it back upon me, or maybe it was just a dream.

"Ça va, mon cher?" he asked breathlessly. I nodded slowly, trying to shake all the terrible thoughts from my head. In that instant, another ungodly bullet escaped from a gun and whistled past Poirot's ear. I saw it in slow motion, so close that my skin became gooseflesh and all I could remember was the war. It was enough for me. I grabbed Poirot and slammed him against the wall, covering his body with mine. I don't know what I had been truly thinking, perhaps it was fear, but not for my own life. I felt an undeniable urge to protect my dearest friend, no matter if it meant putting my life on the line. At that moment, nothing else concerned me. I just clung to him against the wall. I must have been trembling when two warm arms curled themselves around my waist. They pulled me in gently and pushed my chest to their master. My cheek sat against his and all I could smell was a sweet and fine cologne.

Suddenly, there was silence in our world. We stayed motionless, my breath hot and fast, coming out in plumes of steam that stayed glittering on the brick wall I was facing. There were screams, I knew, coming in torment from the lane so close yet so far away. Before I could control any logical thought, my eyes were closing and my trembling lips drew across to kiss the man on his temple. Gently, he flinched.

I recovered and retreated as fast as I could, though my hands were stubborn and still held his waist for a few sweet seconds. I turned my head away in shame as he stood there staring at me with the eyes of innocence. It should not have happened. I wanted to stammer an apology. I opened my mouth and a gurgle tried to make its way into proper words when the shooting raged anew. In my foolishness, I made to leave the alleyway, but Poirot gave a strange cry and pulled me back to his chest as several shots rang through the air over our heads, shattering the bricks above.

"Mon cher Hastings, pardonnez-moi de vous avoir dans le entraîné danger! Je suis navré mon… mon…" his tremulous voice was so upset, I just couldn't help myself. I bent down and kissed him on the lips. That was all. We were both trembling and afraid, yet so exhilarated. His hands crawled up my chest and hooked over my shoulders as his lips shyly returned my touch. Poirot let tip his head to one side and my mouth fell down his neck, kissing him up to his ear. His groan was more like a purr as he pressed his face into my hair.

"Jai t'adore," he whispered in my ear.

In our pause the silence became all too clear. There were no more shots ringing out and the screams had turned to yells of command. My heart sank as I realised we could not stay in one another's arms any longer, but still, like a fool, I held on.

"Poirot, Hastings, are you all right?"

I turned to the street scandalised.

"We are all right!" Poirot cried in his confident voice, if not a little more cheery than usual. Still I had the urge to explain to the caller what we were doing, but there was no person to the voice, and as I turned back to face Poirot, I found he had already slipped past me and was at the front of the alleyway. For a moment, I just stared at the wall before I smoothed down my hair and straightened my coat until I looked respectable again.

The policemen who had been absent before the shooting had all seemed to have magically reappeared. On the sidewalk lay the man, dead in a most theatrical way; face down in a pool of his own blood. The Chief Inspector stood over his body; gun still clenched tightly in his hand. The other absently stroked his chin in thought, until a little detective emerged from the shadows in front of him.

"Poirot, Hastings!" Japp jumped at his sight. "Are you all right? Not hurt or-" "Nothing happened to us, dear Japp!" Poirot smiled. From behind him, Captain Hastings took a step forwards into the light, his face betraying the word of his friend. Japp nodded solemnly, taking his hat off and crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes fell to gaze at the man at his feet.

"Can you bloody-well explain who that was?" Japp asked in a loud voice, breaking the reverence of the moment.

"Accomplice," Poirot said simply.

"But why not just make a run for it? Why did he start shooting? He knew he would be caught."

"They were brothers. He couldn't leave him to the gallows." Japp's eyes flicked across to the Captain, who had spoken without taking his eyes off the dead man. Poirot took a tentative step back and, after a brief silence, Japp crammed his hat back on his head and placed his hands on his hips.

"That explains it then. Good."

"He remained in the background until most of your men had gone. Had I realised it sooner, Chief Inspector, I would have taken more precautions. I am sorry for putting you all in danger. Was anyone hurt?"

"Jones got a shot in the arm, but he'll survive." Japp said, then added softly,

"It's not your fault Poirot, or you Captain. We have the two of them now; all's done and dusted."

Poirot sighed and walked up and along the sidewalk. The policemen tipped their heads in respect as he passed them by. Sergeant Jones was sitting on the curb, a bloodied handkerchief pressed against his arm. Two friends stood above him, conversing cheerily to each other and Jones, describing their actions of the past few minutes. They waved when they saw Poirot. Surprised by the two's amiability, the small man waved back rather uneasily. The others laughed heartily at the expense of the little Belgian, who didn't seem to realise what had caused them cheer in such a time of solemnity.

"So chaps, was that a bit of action or what? Wow! And what about you, Mr. Poirot? We we're afraid you'd copped it for a minute." Said one of the men, clapping his wounded friend on the back. Poirot had no idea what he had 'copped', or not, but sighed in relief when the second policeman went on,

"You're a hero, Tom!" he laughed. "Ain't he, Mr. Poirot?" Jones looked up, his cheeks flushed.

"Indeed you are,' Poirot conceded, "and you do great pride to this uniform, young man." Jones looked at the detective and then his friends and smiled.

"Thanks, Mr. Poirot."

"Well, that sure was a fight!" the second policeman laughed again. "Deserves a drink, I should say, so- um… off-duty…" he added when he saw the Chief Inspector coming.

"Not to worry lads, you're off duty now, and drinks're on me! Dear God, Poirot-" Japp said, gripping the detective on the shoulder.

"Japp! What are you-" Poirot exclaimed as Japp and several other policemen created a tight knot around him.

Hastings was ambling around the end of the lane, lazily gazing at the men when they surrounded Poirot. As he watched, the knot grew tighter and concern for his friend entreated his legs to race across the darkened lane. His step weakened as he came closer, noticing with a grin the purpose of the men's strange actions.

"…really wouldn't want to see yourself now…" said Japp.

"…don't worry, it'll soon be all right…" one sergeant spoke soothingly.

"…we'll have it clean, sir…" offered another man.

"Mon Dieu, qu´est-ce que vous faites? Laissez-moi! Arrêtez!" squeaked Poirot, his hands reaching up to hold his hat in place as he desperately tried to free himself from the Scotland Yard attack. One policeman yelped sharply when his foot was stood on, earning profuse apologies from Poirot, amongst his bid for freedom.

"Where did you fall… your coat is filthy… by God, Poirot, I hope you wash this soon…" Japp growled, beating his palm against the terrified Belgian's back.

"Ah," Poirot squeaked as he realised the cause of his assault. He raised his hands above his head as he spoke.

"Oh merci, merci, gentlemen. Thank you, but you let me go now." The policemen quickly retreated and Poirot dropped his hands. Smiling warmly, he made his way to an awaiting car, gratefully free of the hands of the law. With an amused grin, Hastings followed.

*** 

The entire ride home we sat in an uncomfortable silence. Neither Poirot nor I had the courage to speak, even as we entered the lobby, the harsh light shocking compared to the dim lamps of the lane. The liftman slammed the doors shut with sleepy anger and they continued to clatter as the lift rose up the heart of the building. I watched the floors as they rolled gently past and below us whilst trying to settle myself down. Beside me, Poirot stood with an equally calculating stare, his face flickering from dark to light as the floors passed by. The lift stopped and we exited, Poirot nodding silently to the liftman who frowned back. He unlocked the apartment door with a click and we entered. I closed it silently and helped my friend out of his coat.

"Merci, mon cher ami," he said as he walked to his office. I placed his coat on its hook and went to the living room. Without bothering to flick the light switch, I dropped down onto the sofa and buried my face in my hands. What had happened? Perhaps this was the untimely end of our friendship. What would he think of me?

The room splashed with light and I looked up in surprise. Poirot moved gracefully from the hall to the liquor cabinet near the table. He poured a generous amount of brandy into a tumbler and sat down on the other end of the sofa. He handed me the glass and I drank gratefully. As I relished the brandy's bite, Poirot drew his knees together and sat with perfect posture, peaking slowly,

"So I thought perhaps I would shave my moustache."

I spat the drink on the carpet and choked on the drops left in my throat. His one sentence -even though I knew why- shocked me. Poirot, no moustache. Impossible! You could not think the word 'Poirot' without thinking 'moustache'! Why… what did I… the greatest detective in the world gone crazy and it was my fault. I rested my head between my knees and tried to catch my breath. With a grunt I straightened back up and stammered,

"What- what do you…" alcohol burned in my nose and I began to cough. I felt the sofa bounce back up as Poirot stood and left for the kitchen. He returned with a glass of water and slid next to me, patting me gently on the back as I drank.

I sucked the air in and spluttered,

"You're crazy Poirot. Why on Earth…" he simply sat there staring at me with an alluring grin.

"To be able to kiss you properly," he said with a smile. I straightened up and looked at him, thankful I wasn't choking once again at the shock. I had to laugh. I wanted to pour my heart out, but instead the alcohol seared my throat again and I coughed louder than before. Poirot took the glass from me and placed it on the coffee table, moved back again and rested his elbow on his knee. He cupped his chin in his hand as he studied my flushed face. In that moment it felt like all the air had left the room, intent on suffocating me. I looked away, pulling out the cup of brandy that had been wedged between the sofa cushions when I had had my first choking fit. I gazed down at the stain on the carpet as I raised the glass to my lips. Under normal circumstances, he would have scolded me; actually, under normal circumstances I don't think I would have even splattered brandy all over the carpet. I tried to say as little as possible.

"I don't think that will be necessary. We can… work something out." We smiled at each other and Poirot shifted, folding his hands in his lap.

"Any suggestions?" he winked mischievously. I turned my body to him, leaned my head to the side, and kissed him. My right hand wrapped around his neck and my left found its way to his knee. Poirot gently returned my kiss and slid his fingers through my hair. His lips tasted like chocolate liqueur… I was not surprised he had felt the need to drink, not after _that_ night.

He broke the kiss and I looked at him. His eyes were fixed inquiringly at me and I almost forgot then what I wanted.

"My friend, if you do not fe-"

"Feel comfortable?" I stammered. How could I be uncomfortable? Good Lord, after all, this is what I had often dreamed of. But the reality, the reality was far more delightful than any dream could ever be.

"I just… why did you never tell me?"

Poirot smiled slyly at me as he leaned back.

"Ah, mon cher, out of fear. I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to contain myself. It was difficult enough to control myself and not 'run amock' on you on the street itself. It would have been wrong, vous comprendre?" He grinned with a hint of mischief in his eye.

"Right," I smiled. I felt a like a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

"But with no moustache, I dare say I wouldn't want to." I said unconvincingly.

"Non, non, I see through you, yo-" before he could finish I threw myself forwards and kissed him again, moustache and all.

The doorbell rang loudly, as if it was intent on disturbing us.

"Oh, damn it!" I cursed. I tried to get up but lost my balance. I fell, my shoulder hitting the coffee table hard. Poirot laughed, leaning forward to help me up, and as I rose I hit my head on the blasted table. I hissed in pain. My friend pushed the table out of the way and pulled me up. In a rather crumpled state I made my way to the door.

"Hastings-"

I span around and something white flew under my nose. Poirot vigorously wiped my upper lip, and I realised it was a handkerchief he was holding.

"What on-"

"I think perhaps the postman will not be too pleased if he sees you have been kissing the chimney sweep!" He showed me the black streaks left on the handkerchief.

"You colour your moustache!" I blurted out, rather rudely, I must admit.

"Just a little… you see… someone is waiting," he pointed to the door.

Behind the door there actually was the postman. Damned Evening Post.

"Right, thank you… right… sure, you too… yes… next time you leave it on the threshold… thank you, goodbye."  
I came back to the living room with three letters. Hardly worth the hassle they had caused, I was sure. Poirot was in his study, though he had managed to straighten the table I had upset with precision accuracy. I went to his study; there my friend sat inspecting his moustache in the oval mirror he kept on the desk. He smiled as I came in and folded the mirror down.

"All is well I trust?" I nodded.

"There's a bill, an invitation from a Lord Dawenport and one private letter… from 'ABC'. The man can't even sign his name…" I placed the letter on the desk.

"Nothing there you'll find interesting, I should think," I whispered as I drew in close.

"You never know, Hastings."

Our lips pressed together again, although this time I was more careful of my friend's moustache. I straightened and looked calculatingly at the ceiling, smacking my lips.

"Hmm… Sherry, I think this time?"

"Amazing Hastings! One day you truly will be a great detective!"


End file.
